RPlog:Orson the Artist
Cleared Area (Before Main House) - Karrde's Base - Myrkr Central to the base is this open area between the main buildings is this open expanse, with its meticulously trimmed bluish-green grass and the occasional dotting of wildflowers. When necessary this area can be used for anything from special (and discreet) picnic-type gatherings to the organization of certain cargo before and after shipping. Often the clearing is the location of Karrde Group employees exercising, playing some simple lawn games, or simply enjoying the outdoors in between duty shifts. The main house is just to the southeast of the clearing; far to the west is the hanger, while the barracks are situated against the trees to the north. The Players: Orson: Too short, not handsome, and a little too old. What's lacking in looks has to be made up for with something strong on the inside: determination and persistence, a certain grit evident in the look sent by his slate gray eyes. Lines around this human male's mouth and eyes tell of hard days and decisions in his past, each one a new crease in an otherwise young man's face. He is smaller framed, though quite stout with a barrel chest and strong shoulders. Still, he's not overly muscled, simply in good physical shape. Dark hair is kept in a simple style but is more often than not in a disheveled state. A few lonely gray hairs touch his temples. He might be around forty standard years old. He has a larger nose, on a round-shaped, bold face that is quick with a grin but usually caught up in a shade of thoughtful. He is wearing fur pants, thick white, large and billowing at the legs. A black tank top covers his thick barrel chest; while fit and stout, he is not overly muscled. A gray scarf encircles his waist, evening the dark and light on the man and helping keep his clothes in place. It has been knotted on one side and trails almost all the way to the ground. Soft-soled but thick boots cover his feet. An oversized set of goggles are strapped to his head, stretchy material securing them in an 'X' shaped band around the back of his skull. The lenses are tinted rose red. Jessalyn: The composure of this young human woman is probably the most striking thing about her. Though otherwise unassuming, her expression is one of surprising coherence and calm, belied only by the slightly mischievous gleam in her leaf green eyes. Shining dark red hair falls in unruly silken waves down to the middle of her back, framing her wide cheekbones and smooth, pale skin not as fragile as most redheads'. She is relatively tall for a human woman, with long-boned limbs and a natural grace amplified by her skills. Jessa is dressed in a drab green sleeveless shirt, and a pair of kakhi pants with plenty of pockets. Around her waist is a black leather utility belt. Her hair is held back from her face and clipped behind her head, though stray curling locks continue to fall into her eyes. The fit of her trousers and the sturdy brown suede boots on her legs emphasize her narrow waist and the long-legged rhythm of her strides. Orson has been cleaning out his room-workspace. He's been at it for some hours, and a significant-sized crate lies in the grass outside the door to the personal barracks where he's been piling junk and mechanical parts. His cleaning is representative of something larger going on in the short man's head. Whatever it is, he seems suddenly more active and focused, now prepared to engage the Galaxy and the consequences for his actions on his own terms. The man is outside again, during the night, sitting on the low-slung porch which looks down the slow descent to Karrde's main compound. The lights have been dimmed; he's obviously not seeking attention. He is squatting on a tiny stool, legs apart with his knees almost as high as his face. On the ground in front of him is a wide silver-colored device in the shape of a blunt disc. An emitter nozzle, brass-colored, rises up from the disc, spraying the air with a pale blue cone of light. It's a holoprojecter. In the mechanic's hand, he is loosely holding a gray stylus. The stylus is being used as a brush of sorts, its glowing tip seemingly able to manipulate the air itself, drawing swashes of colored-light as Orson adjusts his grip. He's holopainting. The work is as interesting as the technique. It's a three-dimensional portrait of Luke Skywalker. The Jedi Master's face looks down with trepidation at an unfolding scene beneath him: three lightweapon wielding Force-users in gritty, dramatic combat. It's the battle on the asteroid, skillfully blended into a dark cloud of swirling color. The intent is for it to appear epic and flowing, and the end-result is not far off. "What is that?" The familiar voice of Jessalyn arrives from a short distance off, though the darkness shields her from detection as much as her fluid steps that carry no sound as she walks. She emerges into the light that surrounds Orson, her hands in her pockets, eyeing him curiously. She'd noticed some of the things in his room the other day that looked like pieces of artwork, but had yet to ask him about any of them. Now, watching him form shapes and figures with the delicate stylus, she tilts her head to the side and asks shyly, "Can I see it?" Orson is fairly absorbed in the work, merging a cloudy pattern of deep blue around the Emperor's lightsaber into Luke's dark clothing above. He gives a little start when he hears Jessalyn's approach; the painting gives a flicker, as if Orson's disappointment and surprise could somehow overshadow and affect this machine without him touching some specific control. Still, when he hears her first footfall, he fumbles forward and flicks off the holopainting, triggering the disc. "You surprised me," Orson says through a forced smile, picking up the display unit. "I was just doing, well, trying to teach myself. Some things." He touches his bandage, which is secure and in place, and moves to stand from his little stool. Though she catches a glimpse of what looks like flashing lightsabers before Orson switches off the device, Jessalyn smiles, turning her shoulders as if to head back the way she had come. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you. I should try to get some sleep, anyway." She was curious about the painting, but not enough to embarrass him or make him uncomfortable. "I hope you're feeling better, Orson. Maybe when we leave this place I can take a look at your injuries and see if I can help." Orson almost lets her go. He could go back to what he was doing, and he could avoid the almost certainly lurking Simon seeing the pair together in yet another awkward moment. So, while he calls her back, the tech's voice is stiff, and more polite than it has been. "Not at all," Orson says, waving his hand at her. "Please, join me. I was working on a ... well, I was going to give it to you anyway, if it turned out okay. I'm not really that good." He puts the disc back on the floor and triggers it, once again throwing charged photons into an excited frenzy. The nearly complete painting floats above the porch. "You said, well, seemed sad about missing him. And I dunno. The picture is from Tatooine, where we talked a standard month or two ago. And then this." He waves his thick hand at the bottom half of the painting, where the three-fold lightweapon battle is taking place. "You recognize this, I suppose." The mechanic shrugs and looks at Jessalyn critically, gauging her response. The young woman takes a step forward, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she leans in to have a better look. Once she realizes what it depicts, she catches her breath, her eyes brightening. It was an image of Luke, taken not so long ago, and she's shocked by the changes she sees in his face. Though he doesn't appear any older than two years should account for, she can almost read the experiences carved into his face, things that had aged him more than just years could. Jessa swallows, guilt twisting in her heart. But she's too pleased about the beauty of the piece to let her feelings mar her appreciation of it. It was surprising to see her own image in something like this, as well, and she covers her mouth with her hand, suppressing a broad grin. "Wow... that's really beautiful, Orson. You were making that for me? I'm very touched." Orson has already decided that he won't be pleased with whatever reaction she has, and he reaches to turn it off once more. "Well, it still needs work. I don't know what else to do to it though," he says, squinting as his face nears the projected light. "Little corrections here and there." He feels a bit like a child presenting some artwork to its parents: they'll like it regardless. He knows Jessalyn's gracious heart wouldn't allow her to -not- like the work, so he's off on the shaky ground of self-critique again. Still, he seems to suddenly ... have it together more, and adds quietly: "It's a nice hobby." With that, the mechanic leans to one side, looking past Jessalyn. "Simon around?" he inquires neutrally. To be honest, Jessalyn is somewhat relieved when Orson switches off the image. It was a little overwhelming to see herself depicted in some kind of heroic presentation, and she isn't sure how to react to it. Seeing the Jedi Master was jarring in and of itself, as well. If Simon were to see it, she thinks with a frown, it would -not- be a good thing. She sighs softly, glancing at Orson and his question, then casting a glance over her shoulder, peering into the dark. "I don't know. i haven't seen him around in a few hours. He may have gone to bed." Orson lifts his chin, still looking out into the dark. "Yeah," he murmurs, resisting the temptation to say 'good.' He wraps his thick fingers around the disc, plucking it heavily from the porch and resting it on his knee. As the mechanic takes his spot on the stool again, he turns off the projector. "I suppose it's kind of funny," Orson starts, half-closing his eyes and looking where the projected image might be were the device on. "Kind of fantastic. Mythical. Epic." He can't find the word he wants exactly, so he starts on a list, waving his hand in a circle as they come. "Like something out of an old story. It's terrible to witness history in the making. And realize what you're seeing." The mechanic, fresh and more focused, reorients his stool. "To be a part of it. By the way, don't worry about the shoulder." Orson pats his bandage, looking up at Jessalyn with a sudden grin. "The scar will build character, maybe." "Yeah," Jessa chuckles, folding her arms and looking thoughtful, "that's it exactly. Especially when you never considered yourself anything but ordinary. All I wanted to do when I was a kid was fix ships. Let the other guys do the hard part." She tilts her head and considers him and his bandaged shoulder, chuckling softly. "I think you've already got plenty of character, Orson." Hesitating, Jessalyn wonders if she should bring up the incident from the day before, when she'd once again seemingly frightened Orson off. Perhaps the cause of his discomfort was that he did not appreciate the familiarity with which she treated him now, considering him a confidante and friend. Or more likely it was because of the unspoken competition going on between he and Simon for her attentions. Either way, she wanted to mend things. She didn't want to have to choose between two people she'd grown fond of and needed as friends... or more. "Listen, about yesterday," she starts, pausing to give him time to protest if he wants. Orson protests, holding up a hand and closing his eyes fully. "No explanation required," he says, reversing the direction of his hand and sweeping it across his pate of disheveled hair before dropping it in his lap. "We've all had a lot on us," the mechanic says, remarkably forthright. "I've been trying to figure out why I've been so disoriented. Feeling strange for saving two at the possible sacrifice of millions. I'm glad I did it, still. But I'm also ready to start working again." A little frown crosses his face, and he lifts his hand, reaching for Jessalyn's before drawing it back suddenly. "I've missed my family too. And you've been so kind. Your support is still needed. But ..." the mechanic drones, looking back into the Dark, as if expecting Simon to step forth, onto the porch, at any moment. "Simon needs you more." Jessalyn bends her head and doesn't see Orson's outstretched hand that reaches toward her for a fraction of a second. Her own eyes close briefly, but when she opens them again, there's urgency and earnestness in her voice. "Orson, you didn't make a mistake. You didn't sacrifice millions for the sake of two people. If I have to destroy the Death Star all by myself, I'll make certain of that." Fiercely determined, she allows scenarios play out in her mind for a moment; perhaps she could figure out a way to find the Death Star using the Force. Or if she couldn't, perhaps another Jedi could. She inhales sharply, taking a step towards Orson, her arms unfolding so that she clenches her hands into fists at her sides. "I can be there for both of you. I don't have to choose between one or the other, do I? I need both of you." Orson stands, scooting his makeshift stool backwards and gripping his holopainting gear in one hand. With that, Simon or no Simon, he leans forward and gives Jessalyn a hug, broad shoulders leaning toward her and thick arms giving her a good squeeze. "Of course not," Orson says quietly, still hanging on to her. Voice infinitely more sure of itself, stronger, ready to reciprocate on some of the support he's been given recently, if need be. He releases her and holds her by the shoulders. "Whenever," the smaller man says, dipping his head and looking up at her, strong and coy at the same time. He doesn't elaborate on his comment, letting it ride. He's safe in those moments of ambiguity, letting her take his comment however she'd like. From his broad smile and restrained eyes, the meaning would be clear. Whenever she's ready. Orson steps away from her, striding across the porch and off of it in two long steps. He hops down and plunges into the dark himself, off to do battle with it. Orson the Artist